


Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein

by darnedchild



Series: Universally Monstrous [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2019 Sherlolly Halloween, Frankenstein Influence/References, Gen, Humor, I like the classic Universal Monsters, I think the fic is funny, Sherlolly-ish, but I'm weird, talk of genitals - PG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 15:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: They were four bodies in before someone noticed a pattern. It was Philip Anderson, of all people, who made the first connection. - Getting ready for 2019's Sherlolly Halloween really, really early this year. I'm playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.





	Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a fic for the 2018 Sherlolly Halloween fest, but due to health reasons I wasn’t able to complete it in time. So, consider this an early start for the 2019 fest!  
> Not beta’d because I’m on a deadline. I’ll get it looked at later, promise. Probably.

**Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein**

They were four bodies in before someone noticed a pattern.

It was Philip Anderson, of all people, who made the first connection.

His habit of monitoring the news and scouring the usual internet sites every day (originally looking for any tidbit of information that might lead to Sherlock’s whereabouts during the two years he’d been “dead”, or a case that might interest the missing man enough to draw his attention back to London) had diminished but not disappeared after the Empty Hearse club’s focus had shifted from conspiracy theories to more of a Sherlock Holmes appreciation society. Even though several people thought he’d turned into a bit of a delusional weirdo, he had been a respectable forensic pathologist at one time.

(Or “respectable” if you asked Sherlock, which no one did.)

Therefore, as a conspiracy nutter and a man who had examined crime scenes and analysed evidence for a living, he was uniquely qualified to gather all the information and put two and two together.

Although, technically, it was more one plus two plus one plus one. Because while the first, third, and fourth bodies found were missing a left leg from the hip joint down, a right foot, and a left arm cut off at the wrist, number two had turned up without either of his hands. 

Four victims, five body parts, and zero leads.

Until a fifth victim was found with just enough trace evidence to make Sherlock squirm in delight at his kitchen microscope. He’d even gone so far as thanking Philip for bringing him the case.

Then he’d sent off a series of texts, stood in front of his newly constructed wall of crime scene photos and information, and gestured toward the door. He told Philip to go away so he could think—in a far politer manner than usual—and told him that he could come back in five hours when the people Sherlock had texted would be arriving. On the condition that Philip promised to not be so . . . Anderson-ish, of course.

Philip had eagerly agreed.

Mrs Hudson had let him in that evening, just five (fifteen) minutes early, and told him Sherlock had run off in a rush an hour before but he was welcome to go up and wait. And wait he did as first John Watson, then Greg Lestrade, and finally Molly Hooper trudged up the stairs to Sherlock’s rooms.

The others cast him a few odd looks, but no one actually came out and asked why he was there. They made increasingly awkward small talk until John broke. “Does anyone know where Sherlock is or why he wanted us all here?”

Molly and Greg murmured no, but Philip jumped up from his seat at Sherlock’s desk. “I do! Well, not where he’s at right now, but I know why we’re here.” 

He jumped up on the sofa, ignoring all three versions of “You can’t do that” that were hissed behind him, and pointed at the first series of photos. “It’s fine. I helped Sherlock set all this up. He won’t mind me getting us started. Probably.” 

He jabbed his finger at the image of victim number one. “Ruiz Serrano, up and coming blind-side flanker who hadn’t quite made it into pro rugby, but was apparently on the radar of a few teams. He was found twelve days ago, here.” Philip moved his finger to point out the location on the map that was the centre of Sherlock’s set up. “Cause of death was strangulation. The removal of the leg was post-mortem, and had to have occurred at a different location. No hesitation wounds. The dismemberment was clean and precise.” He looked up to find the others staring at him.

Greg gaped. “My God, it’s like listening to a mini-Sherlock.” 

Philip felt his skin heat in embarrassment. “He-we went over this earlier today.” More specifically, Sherlock had thought out loud while he paced around the sitting room and Philip had hung on his every word, excited to just be part of an investigation again. 

John snorted.

Philip cleared his throat and gestured to the next set of photos. “Both hands missing this time. Body found here.” He pointed to another location.

“I remember that one.” Greg stood up and came closer to the sofa. “The other one wasn’t in my jurisdiction, but this was one of mine. Strangulation, clean amputation. Victim was a-“ He faltered as he searched his memory.

“Surgeon,” Molly supplied.

“Thanks.” Greg offered her an appreciative smile. “Disappeared on the way home from a night with his mistress. His wife wanted to keep the salacious bits out of the public eye and her father knows people so . . .” He eyed Philip. “How did you find out about the hands? We kept that out of the press.”

Philip looked rather proud of himself. “I have my ways,” he said, trying to sound mysterious. Greg narrowed his eyes and Philip flushed and pointed to the wall. “Three was a runner, right foot gone. Four went missing from his gym, an arm this time.”

He pointed to yet another pin on the map. “Number five was found last night. Well, some of him at any rate.”

“What did they take this time?” John asked.

“The entire trunk, neck to groin. Minus the . . .” he gestured toward his own crotch.

Greg and John winced but Molly ignored them as she joined Philip to stand on the sofa. She studied the photos of the bodies. 

“What is he doing?” Greg asked, clearly thinking out loud.

“Taking trophies?” John toss out, trying to help brainstorm.

“But what is he going to do with them?” Greg wondered.

Philip opened his mouth to reply but Molly beat him to it. “He’s making a man.”

The former forensic pathologist/current president of the largest official Sherlock Holmes fan club in the London area deflated somewhat. “Yeah, that’s what Sherlock thought, too. He said the killer was harvesting from the best specimens he could find in his hunting zone. None of the victims were exactly right as is, but when you broke them down into individual parts and put them all together?”

“The perfect man,” Molly whispered.

Greg grimaced. “That’s messed up.”

John pulled a chair away from Sherlock’s table and opened the laptop there. “Okay, so we’ve got a nutter who thinks he’s Doctor Frankenstein running around. Assuming there aren’t victims out there we aren’t aware of, he’s still missing parts. Let’s make a list and see what we can come up with from there.”

Philip, Molly, and John quickly began to throw out suggestions and Greg silently let them run out of steam. He sat in John’s chair and jotted down notes about the different locations of the body dumps and victims, looking for a common link between them. 

“So we’ve got another arm, a leg and foot, the head and . . .” John gestured toward Philip’s crotch.

“Genitals,” Molly huffed. “You can say genitals.”

Greg pretended he hadn’t heard her. “He seems to go for the athletic types.”

John shook his head. “The hands came from a surgeon, remember? Look at his picture, I doubt he spent too much time at a gym. And he definitely isn’t a runner.”

“He wanted dexterity with the hands, not strength.” Molly stepped off the sofa and plopped down to sit on it. “So we’re looking for the best of the best. How do you even begin to narrow down the best penis in the city? What criteria would you use? I mean, is he looking for purely physical attributes or is he taking things like stamina into consideration? What about fertility? Philip, did he leave the testicles as well as the penis?”

“Could we not talk about that bit anymore?” Greg looked a little green. 

John nodded in agreement. “Right, we’ll come back to the genitals. What else can we focus on?”

Philip thought they were overlooking the most obvious answer. “The head.”

“Someone handsome, then. An actor?” John began to peck at the keyboard of the laptop again. 

“Wrong.” Philip rolled his eyes. They really were being obtuse. The killer would definitely be looking for someone smart, someone like . . . _Oh no_. He paled and had to lean a hand against the wall, ignoring the papers that crinkled under his palm.

Molly immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

He shook his head. “Who is the most intelligent man you know?”

“Mycroft,” was John’s immediate answer, followed quickly by another “Mycroft” from Molly and “What they said” from Greg.

“No. Well, yes,” Philip conceded. “But no one is going to be able to get close enough to Mycroft Holmes to cut off his head for nefarious purposes.”

John smirked. “Is there any other kind of purpose for head stealing, other than nefarious ones?”

Philip ignored him as best as he could. “It’s Sherlock. That’s why he’s not here. The killer must have grabbed him and is probably getting ready to cut his head off as we speak.”

John dropped his head into his hands. “It’s more likely Sherlock hunted the man down himself and practically offered up his neck just to satisfy his curiosity.” 

Just then Molly’s phone uttered a single word, clearly spoken in Sherlock’s voice (although Philip had never heard that particular soft tone come from Sherlock before). “Molly.”

She blushed. “It’s, uhm, it’s a text. From Sherlock. That’s his, he put that, I didn’t-“ She pulled her mobile out of her pocket. “Oh, it’s an address.” 

Another husky “Molly”.

“He says ‘send John and Lestrade, no one else’. And now there’s a picture of-“ She gulped. “It’s really dark, but I can just make out what appears to be most of a body on a surgical table.”

“I knew it!” Philip pushed himself away from the wall and jumped off the sofa, narrowly missing the low table in front of it. He slapped his hands together. “Let’s go rescue Sherlock Holmes!”

“You’re staying here.” Greg pointed at the floor as if it emphasise his statement. “Molly, you should st-“

“Not a chance.” She was already pulling on her coat.

“You can’t come,” John tried to sound intimidating.

“You don’t have the address,” Molly countered. “And if you so much as reach for my phone to take it I will kick you in the _genitals_ so hard you won’t be able to see straight for days.”

John quickly pulled his hand back to his side. “All right then.”

“Fine, we’re all going.” Greg threw his hands up into the air. “Should we invite Mrs Hudson while we’re at it?”

Molly and John shared a look. John cleared his throat. “Actually, that might not be a completely bad idea. She knows . . . things.”

Greg pinched his nose. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“Just to clarify.” Philip hurried after the other three as they stomped down the stairs toward the ground floor. “I’m coming, too, right?”


End file.
